On the first nice day of spring, it's hard to quell the hankering for a good ol' fashioned game of kickball. Nathalie provided the idea. Their friend Jared recruited enough people to field two (dubiously small) teams. Neither of them had a ball. Enter: Harry. While it was attraction at first dumb joke, it wasn't until a month later at Jared's going away Mariners-themed potluck where they really hit it off. Hours passed in a current of conversation. Oh, this was the real deal. Days later, Harry picked Nat up in his 1996 light blue convertible (swoon), handed her the AUX, and drove them up twisty backroads to a Queen Anne pocket park. Sipping on Kona Big Wave, they watched the sun dip below the skyline. On the way home, when Kanye West's "Last Call" came on, Harry rushed to change the song, except Nathalie was already quoting Jay-Z's intro ("Yo, fuck you Kanye first and foremost for making me do this shit..."). Gobsmacked, he pulled the car over. "You know this song?" He kissed her. They saw each other every day for the next 10 straight. They watched World Cup games at Atlantic Crossing, dueled old men in doubles ping pong at Teddy's Tavern, sweated in Nathalie's sweltering college house watching (and not finishing) Nicholas Cage's "National Treasure," solved multiple Sunday crosswords, Harry administered a fraught chess lesson over bubble tea, and they ate at least one whole family-sized Stouffer's Lasagna. In Harry's top floor room in his Maple Leaf house, they took a love languages quiz. Number one for both of them? Words of affirmation. A beat after, Harry asked whether they should make it official. Obviously. Six years later and a lot of it is just as it once was only there's more cat litter to scoop and Nat has shifted her love language to Acts of Service. Despite a few bumps in the road and on the head, it's been a whole lot of easy fun.